


On the Côte d'Azur

by BlueKiwi, LyraNgalia



Series: A Mirror Darkly [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Female Moriarty, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are far more secrets Moriarty has than the most guarded one, and Irene Adler may or may not have been pulled into a game that has neither rules nor beginning nor ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Côte d'Azur

The autumn sun rose in a blinding flash of white-gold light over the Mediterranean, brightening the seas and skies in a panorama that would not have been out of place on a postcard. The quaint buildings that lined the coast of the French Riviera almost hummed with activity as morning rose, the sleepy atmosphere giving way to the typical weekday bustle. Tourists explored the cheerful decadence while those fortunate enough to live amongst the labyrinth of red-roofed buildings headed off to work.

Overlooking one of the many docks that hugged the shore were several villas dedicated specifically to visitors of wealth and ostentatious tastes – or at least those pretending to have those signature traits. In one of the suites at the Chateau de la Chevre d'Or, however, the breathtaking views were going unnoticed by its occupant. She was currently sitting at the desk, as far away from the windows and balcony as possible, absently scrolling through her phone in one hand and stirring her tea – still untouched – with the other.

It wasn’t even quite eight yet, and she _despised_ tardiness.

There was a knock on her door. She ignored it, and waited instead for the inevitable text message that would follow. No text message, no need to get up. There were _kings_ who didn’t do as much as she did before breakfast.

 

There was no text message for a good ten minutes, but then neither was there a second, insistent knock on the door.

Eventually, the text comes, this time without the accompanying knock.

` Decided to sleep in today, pet? `

 

Moriarty looked down at her phone as it buzzed, and only narrowed her eyes at the text, a small kernel of irritation burning in the back of her mind. She climbed to her feet, but didn't head towards the door. Instead, she circled back around to the bedroom, intending to kill two birds with one stone.

A moment or two later, the door swung open and a haphazardly-dressed young man opened the door, blinking owlishly.

"No room service," he murmured in Danish-accented French, still half-asleep.

 

Irene stood on the villa's shaded porch, a carefully bored expression on her face as she seemed to stare out at the view of the sparkling Mediterranean. She was dressed flawlessly in tailored dark grey, the only splashes of colour like blood on her lips and fingernails, and when the door opened, she turned slowly, her lips twisting into a cool smirk as the young man leaned out.

"Certainly not for you, pet. You're done now," she says, approaching on heels too high to be proper for the time of day, and hooking a finger into his collar. She all but dragged him out of the door by the neck, in the same instant her other hand slipped into his pocket. "Be a good boy and go sleep the rest of it off under a tree or something."

She barely gave him a second glance as he stumbled out of the doorway and she stepped into the villa.

"Enjoyed yourself with my little present, I see," she said to the seemingly empty house.

 

Moriarty emerged from the bedroom, glancing briefly in Irene's direction before heading straight back to her desk. "He was boring and predictable. I had to suffer through drinks with him, and he was unconscious before ten." She wasn't so much disgusted as she was irritated by the sheer waste of time he had been. 

She glanced down at the phone on the table - _his_ phone, ripe with contacts consisting of nearly the entire Danish royal family - and pursed her lips, waving one negligent hands towards Irene. "Next time you want to send me a present, _don't_."

 

Irene smirked. The boy was useless; she'd checked before sending him this way. Most of the Danish royals thought he was an idiot, and she'd replaced his phone with a replica before she'd sent him this way (and replaced it again just now). The question was how long it would take Moriarty to realize the phone she held was a fake, and what she'd do when she found out.

That would be important, Irene knew, if these little liaisons continued.

"Who said anything about drinks or sleeping with him?" she asked, "You could have just as easily picked his pocket."

 

After a few more moments of toying with the phone, Moriarty picked it up and tossed it to Irene with a bothered sigh.

"I could have, but I didn't," she replied, sitting back down at the desk and flicking the teacup with her finger. A mask of neutrality had slipped back onto her face, the apathy and exasperation from before dissolving as quickly as they had appeared. She sat back in her chair, narrowing her eyes at Irene. "But one must always keep up appearances, Ms. Adler."

After all, there had been no need to sleep with the fool – a tablet or two of Rophynol in his drink had been enough to indispose him for the night. No need to tell Miss Adler that Moriarty had drugged her present, of course. She’d find out eventually, if she was as smart and cunning as she claimed.

 

She caught the phone neatly and began idly scrolling through the numbers, contact information, photos. Her heels click sharply through the inlaid marble of the villa floor.

"Indeed. And that boy _will_ talk, I expect. Should do some very interesting things to Mr. Moran's reputation, for certain people to think his assistant has unusual vices."

 

"Do you think so?" It wasn't really a question, only a passing half-murmured thought. She laced her fingers together and rested her chin atop them, looking mildly thoughtful. It would be in her interest whether he spoke or not - she had long since learned to spin disadvantages around, long before they become nuisances.

Of course, there were always...incentives to tip his decision in either direction.

"His betrothed won't like it much, I expect. And the Danish royal family is already neck-deep in unrevealed scandal."

 

A laugh, and Irene perched on the edge of Moriarty's table, the motion hiking her tailored dress up. It is a practiced motion, meant to subtly draw the eye, but she didn't expect Moriarty to be moved by it. It wasn't for Moriarty, after all. It was, just in case, Mr. Moran happened to appear and needed a reminder of exactly what he could be missing if he did anything... rash.

"She won't like it, but I doubt there's much she can do about it. That's the beauty of the rich and powerful, isn't it? Everyone has their buried scandals."

 

"I suppose that's true."

She raised her eyebrow at the subtle movement, the corner of her mouth slightly lifting in amusement. "I've sent him to London, Miss Adler. We'll have none of that."

 

"Trust him to walk and talk like the consulting criminal without a leash?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. She remained seated as she was; to move would be to admit that there had been an ulterior motive, after all.

"Are people really so easily fooled by his act, Miss Moriarty?"

 

"Am I supposed to not trust him now that we've become acquainted?" Moriarty tapped the edge of her teacup, smiling to herself. "People see what they want to see, even when the obvious is right in front of their faces. No one can comprehend that the bane of Scotland Yard could be anyone other than a man. So that's what I gave them."

 

"I expect you don't trust anyone, least of all the people who know your secrets."

Irene shrugs and rests the palms of her hands again the table, leaning on them nonchalantly as she offers the other woman a thin smile. She was deliberately avoiding addressing the reason why she's here, to see how long before Moriarty loses her own patience. "Consider me curious what collar you have on a man like that."

 

Moriarty tilted her head to the side, eyes flashing despite the slight smile on her face. "Now why should I tell you something like that? You apparently know me well enough to know that I closely guard the best of my secrets."

 

Her own smile deepened, deep red and sharp as razor wire. The spark in Moriarty's eyes was telling, as was the fact that she didn’t deny the comment about the collar. It gave Irene more data, more little things to file away in the file in her mind for 'Mr.' J. Moriarty, consulting criminal.

"I didn't say I expect you to tell me, now did I?"

 

"Curiosity kills, Ms. Adler," Moriarty replied, the amusement on her face slowly vanishing. While she has built an empire of twisting truth and coating her words in cyanide and honey, she has quickly tired of pleasantries of the conversation. She knew when Irene Adler wanted something, whether it was knowledge or people, and the visit to the French Riviera only spoke of other intentions. "Now, mind telling me what you had in mind sending me that poor boy with that useless phone?"

 

She arched an eyebrow, the only indication she'd known that the phone had been a fake. Irene's expression remained amused in the face of Moriarty's almost inhuman blankness. 

"What happened to 'curiosity kills', Miss Moriarty?" she asked, tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. "Or are we making an exception today?"

 

"I don't die as easily as some people." Moriarty slowly rose to her feet and leaned towards Irene, narrowing her eyes as she did so. Dark chaos began to surface in her expression, calculations quick and biting that promised unwanted mayhem. "Now tell me what you're hoping to gain here."

 

"What makes you think I haven't gotten it already?" she answered, refusing to move, to pull back, even as Moriarty leaned in close. 

She holds up the phone, red tipped fingers tapping on the screen. "How did you know it was a fake?"

 

_And there is your mortal flaw._

For a very long moment, Moriarty didn't speak, her intense gaze still focused sharply on Irene.

Then, very quietly, "I said it was useless, Miss Adler. His contacts are of no interest to me. _You_ just confirmed that it was fake."

 

There was a faint tension, a slight tightening of the muscles around her mouth, as realization dawned on her mistake. Still, Irene tilted her head in acknowledgement of the (temporary) defeat.

"Gave myself away? That's better than I was expecting."

 

Moriarty only frowned at the barely restrained expression on Irene's face and then shrugged at the attempted jab. "It's rather disappointing from my point of view. Have I overestimated you?"

 

"If you were really disappointed, I think I'd be running for my life and not getting very far," she answered, "Let's say I underestimated the man who made the copy."

She turned deliberately away from Moriarty to scroll through the data on the phone. "If your Mr. Holmes is as good as you seem to think, it'd be stupid to try to play him blind, now wouldn't it?"

 

"Running? In those heels? I doubt it." Her smile was distracted as she sat back down in the chair, resting her chin on her hand. She didn't dare comment how well she knew that Monsieur Larkin was quite good at his forging job...when Moriarty wanted him to be. She watched Irene for a moment longer before lazily turning her gaze to look out the window.

"Oh, I've no doubt he's good. We've been chasing each other for about seven years now. It's grown tiresome - the same old thing every year can become dull."

 

_Seven years._

Irene tucked that little bit of information away in the back of her mind, like another bit of information on her phone, something to gather now and to examine later, to work out the best way to use.

"Bored, and so you bring me in," Irene said, still perched on the table, watching Moriarty. "The Americans have a name for that, you realize. The Seven Year Itch."

 

She raised a finger to her lips, unable to quite hide the smile that Irene's words produced. "I suppose there might be some truth behind that. There's something that we both want and neither of us has been able to find it. Perhaps a fresh mind might help put an end to that." She glanced at Irene out of the corner of her eyes. "Though I'd still like to hear it from you regarding your original intentions in coming here."

 

Irene tsked, shaking her head at Moriarty's statement. "I think we both know I've given away more than enough for free today, Miss Moriarty" she said, crossing the open foyer to stand in front of the window. "No doubt you've managed to deduce my intentions."

 

Moriarty stood up and perched on the edge of her desk, lazily pulling her hair back into a manageable ponytail. She kept her eyes on Irene though, a faintly pleased look on her face. The French Riviera had been planned weeks ago. Ah, if only Moran could see the results of his handiwork - too bad he was otherwise preoccupied with other tasks in Zurich. It was a half-truth she had told Irene - sure, Moran must've stopped in London first, but Zurich was his ultimate destination, and for good reason.

"Always gathering secrets," Moriarty murmured, crossing her arms. "Don't you ever tire of it? Most people are usually cowed so easily by blackmail that they willingly give you your desperately sought for protection. I would assume that it grows rather tedious - the same old people, day after day, bowing to your air of mischief."

_And here is one secret you've yet to unravel, Miss Adler - the reason why I've taken such interest in you._

 

A careful shrug, and Irene half-turned towards Moriarty. She arched an expectant eyebrow in response.

"That's why I'm here, now isn't it? You think I'm bored of secrets and blackmail and getting exactly what I want, so I'm here to play your little game."

She kept a subtle stress on the 'you', infused her words with a healthy personal skepticism.

 

"I don't think it is." Moriarty's gaze was relentless and unblinking. "You're testing the waters. Testing _my_ reaction to certain things and seeing how it could possibly benefit you." She smiled brightly but the light of that smile did not even begin to reach her eyes. "Which, I suppose, is fair enough since you're still in the dark about my reasons behind my wanting you to play this... _little_ game."

 

Oh, but Moriarty _was_ good. If the other woman wasn't quite so obviously, coldly dangerous, Irene expected she could have a _lot_ of fun. "I'd tell you paranoia doesn't suit you, dear," she said, a small sharp smile tugging at her lips. "But then I'd be lying."

 

"You wouldn't be the first to say so." Hadn't Sebastian said the same thing to her many times within that first year or two of his employment?

Smiling at that, Moriarty walked over to the suite's closet, pulling out a wide-brimmed sunhat. Between that and the pale yellow sundress she was wearing, she hardly looked as if she were London's most notorious criminal mastermind - it was yet another disguise, another play on people's expectations of her appearance. She headed towards the door, calling over her shoulder, "I find that talking business before breakfast is rather unpleasant. Are you coming?"

 

The invitation momentarily put Irene in mind of wolves, of those vivid images of white snow and steaming blood on National Geographic that her hotel lobby's television seemed perpetually stuck on. Because while the sundress and the wide-brimmed hat might fool others, Irene never quite forgot that both she and Moriarty were wolves by nature. Moriarty one in sheep's clothing, while Irene wore her claws brazenly and allowed solitude and careful appearance to invite underestimates.

"Not concerned that I'd tarnish that innocent disguise?" she replied, heading for the door. It was, after all, what she was known for.

 

"Not particularly," came the off-handed reply. "Far better to be seen having breakfast with you than for you to be in my bed, don't you think?" She pulled her phone out of her pocket, not bothering to look back around to see if Irene was following her or not. "Besides, the Spanish gentleman who has been following you these past two days might be less inclined to strangle you if he saw you in the company of Moriarty's secretary Maya."

 

A brief flash of annoyance crossed her face, but that was almost immediately replaced by smugness. She'd known about the Spaniard, and his employer, high ranking Spanish military brass, but the fact that Moriarty knew was interesting. It meant that she was being watched more closely than she'd expected.

Irene made a note of it as they stepped out of the villa and back into morning Mediterranean sun. "A lot of people are inclined to do a lot of things," she answered, pausing and seeming to bask in the light. "If they were actually likely to indulge those inclinations without provocation, I'd be out of work."

 

The trip to the French Riviera had been planned with some of those reasons in mind - Moriarty's acquaintance with the Spaniard's employer went back at least three years after some poor fool had attempted to blindside him with forged governmental documents. She suspected that the officer in question was still furious with her for their little dance in Madrid two years ago. A shame - he could be mildly entertaining when he wanted to be.

She lifted her thin shoulders in a graceful shrug. 

"Or, as I've told you before, until a better offer comes along."

_And you’ve been put onto the scent like a bloodhound. But whose blood is going to be drawn, Miss Adler? Mine...or yours?_


End file.
